


Wounds

by pseudocitrus



Category: Tokyo Ghoul, Tokyo Ghoul:re
Genre: F/M, Kagune, Light Angst, Makkuroneki, Mild Blood, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 23:16:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5720701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudocitrus/pseuds/pseudocitrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kaneki gets lost, and returns to the cafe. (Takes place after TG:re:55.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wounds

**Author's Note:**

> some makkuroneki/touka interactions :’) takes place after TG:re chapter 55.
> 
> hope you’re having a good day!

It takes a week before the Chateau becomes completely silent. No more muffled noises from Yonebayashi’s room. No more furious screams from Urie at night in the training area. No more of Mutsuki coughing as he tries to cook something and ends up burning it.

Just…silence.

:::

No one says it, but he hears it anyway.

:::

_It’s your fault._

_It’s your fault._

_It’s your fault._

_It’s your fault._

:::

He should feel…

Sad. Furious. Guilty.

He should feel… _something_.

But.

All his desires for feeling fall into the hollow of him, rattling and echoing, ineffectual. As if the thing that used to dwell inside him died, and quietly disintegrated, leaving nothing but a shell.

:::

Well — that’s not entirely true. Haise left behind marks too, gouges in the interior: worn-down paths and canyons through which he can maneuver the words people say to him. A map to all the right responses.

“Haise,” Arima says. “Are you alright?”

A moment’s pause. A downward gaze. A deep breath that becomes a deep sigh.

“I’ll…I’ll be alright,” he replies, nudging his chin with his remaining hand. He keeps eyes averted. Eventually, Arima’s examining gaze lifts, and goes elsewhere.

:::

He drags a smiling mask over the hole, and deals with everyone else similarly. That they’re so easily defended against is a relief, and a pity.

So many people and no one that sees him.

So many colleagues and no one to depend on.

:::

_It’s your fault._

_It’s your fault._

_It’s your fault._

_It’s your fault._

:::

Amidst all that silence, it doesn’t take long before old friends come again to visit. He stares in the mirror.

 _I want to die_.

 _As if that would solve anything_ , he spits. _As if I can’t do anything to try to make things better._

 _As if I deserve it_ , he growls. _As if I don’t deserve every miserable minute I’m alive._

 _What,_ he snarls, _a pathetic way to die._

:::

Finally, in a small corner, there’s something shivering and crying and whining. Still there, even after so many years. The quietest of all of them.

 _I want to feel better_.

:::

He heads to the Chateau’s front door. Mutsuki makes some motion as if to keep him; and then, stops. The door opens, and shuts.

He walks.

:::

Crowds can’t hate him. ( _Yet._ ) He takes the train in an endless circle, sometimes standing, sometimes sitting. Some part of him relishes the constriction of people around him, even if they can’t help it, even if they are looking down at their phones or their books. The rush hour swells and fades. Around him, people come and go and come and go, entering and exiting in relentless waves. Throughout it all, he stays, swaying.

:::

It gets late.

The last time he ate was…a while ago. His stomach is starting to twist into itself, reminding him that there are things still left in his empty body that require attention.

Still, stew isn’t compelling enough to get him started back to the Chateau just yet. It hasn’t proven nutritious enough to help him heal his arm, and the mere thought of choking it down makes him ill.

What should he do? What does he want to do? He stands, stalls, on a street corner. After some time, the wind blows, and his feet begin to move on their own, retracing an invisible worn-down path.

Before long, he’s returned. It’s late, but the cafe’s sign is still set out on the street, and he looks down at it. The first time he was here, Haise and his family were still —

_No, no, no._

Don’t think about that. Just — rest, just rest, for a little. Have coffee. He frowns and reaches for the door, shoving it open and walking in. Maybe, if he’s lucky, that barista will be —

Here.

He stares. The barista is _here._ Face-to-face with him, her arm partially raised. She quickly drops it back to her side, and coughs.

“I’m very sorry, sir. We just closed.”

“Oh,” he replies. So she was just coming to turn the signs and take them in. Disappointment stabs him, and before he shows it, he bows hastily and turns. He is halfway out the door again when she grabs his arm. When he looks back, her face is even more shocked than before.

“K…” Her voice is choked. “Kaneki?”

:::

From out of the hollow —

From its smallest corner —

Something —

 _Reaches_.

:::

He says nothing. His heart is in his throat, and blocks any words from passing.

But the barista seems to take his silence as — something. She ushers him inside, and turns the cafe’s sign, and then shuts the door and locks it. She looks up at him, and her expression is so different than her usual soft smile that the words cower even deeper inside him. She looks — awed. Nervous. Delighted.

“Kaneki,” she repeats. Her voice is bare.

“Hi,” he manages finally, and she dips her head briefly to swipe at her eyes.

“Kaneki,” she says. “I…I don’t know what to say. I…”

She trails. She had reached for his hands, but her left hand met only an empty sleeve. She looks back up at him, pale.

“You’re injured.”

He backs away from her. “It’s nothing,” he insists, “I’m fine,” but she grabs his hand down from his face and without further word begins to drag him inside the cafe. Past the counter. Through the corridor. And then — into a spare room.

 _Of course there would be a spare room here,_ he thinks, and then he thinks, _“Of course?”_

She leads him to the couch and indicates that he sit, which he does, but not without an impulsive glance backward to verify that there aren’t any windows anywhere. There aren’t; and the only other door in this room appears to be leading to a small bathroom. He watches, somehow tense, as the barista opens up a fridge inside the room and begins to withdraw several paper-wrapped packages.

His mouth starts watering even before the smell hits.

“Eat,” she says, but it isn’t necessary; his hand is reaching, and tearing the paper, and then the meat is in his mouth. A noise escapes him, unsuppressed. It’s — delicious.

He is reaching for the second package before his last bite of the first is even done. Halfway through it, after seeing that he isn’t slowing, the barista returns to the refrigerator, and retrieves a couple more packages; then, a couple more. In no time, the floor is littered with paper, and when he looks back up at her with ragged breath, her lips are pursed.

“That’s everything,” she says. “Nii-san…well, Yomo-san, to you. He’s out today getting more. Do you need more?”

He swallows, licks his lips. “It’s probably enough,” he says, but she is sitting beside him on the couch now, and examining his drooping sleeve. Her hand pats his shoulder, and lower. No change.

Her touch is so gentle, so concerned. He feels a pinch in his chest. When she looks back to see him watching her so closely, her face flushes.

“S-sorry,” she says, and he shakes his head.

“No, it’s…it’s fine. Isn’t it?” He makes a smile at her, the exact kind that Haise would make, maybe even the kind that someone else would have made, much earlier than Haise. Her face gets even redder.

“I — guess so.” She doesn’t touch his arm again, but she looks at it, troubled. She seems to be debating something, and finally decides. She raises her hand, hooking a finger on the neck of her blouse, and begins to drag it down.

His breath staggers. He sees — a stretch of skin, the slope of her collarbone, and — something else. Tall, hazy stained glass windows. Trickles of blood streaming down his chest. The barista is looking at him expectantly, apprehensively, and when she drops her hands with a cough, he says — “N-no. Please.”

He draws closer. If he were someone else, he would feel too much embarrassment to continue — but, right now, all that’s in him is the quiet voice, filled with hunger. He rests his hand on her shoulder, steadying both her and himself, as he opens his mouth. His tongue can’t help a single stroking taste of her, and as she sucks her breath in, he lets his teeth sink.

Her whole body jerks with the pain of it, and impulsively he wraps his arm around her to comfort her as he closes his lips around the little wound. Despite the roaring in the pit of his belly, he can’t bring himself to bite any deeper than he has already. But he sucks indulgently, and just a little harder, squeezing her more tightly against him as her breathing becomes deep, like a sigh.

She feels — so soft. And warm. And _good_.

 _I want it,_ the quiet voice says, not quite so quietly anymore, _I want more_ , and he raises his mouth and replaces it against the base of the barista’s neck. She gasps, but all he does is kiss, gently, with a suckle; and then he continues kissing. Up the bone of her throat. Up the bottom of her chin.

Her gasp now isn’t one of pain, and when he pauses to check if he should go further, she takes his face in both her hands. She leans and kisses him with such tenderness that he can hear his blood roar in his ears.

 _Yes_.

He lunges, as well as he can, upsetting their balance, dropping his body on top of hers.

 _I want_ —

More kisses, more touching, _more_. Her lips part and her voice whines “ _Kaneki_ ” and he shudders. He kisses her back, his fingers twining and pulling her hair, and she moans her approval of it all but still he — needs — _more_. And one hand isn’t enough to please her.

“Kaneki,” she whispers again, and this time her body rocks beneath his, gently, invitingly, and he groans. Desire makes his mind race desperately. How can he please her? How can he get her to — how can he — how can he —

Well — there is one thing he could do. He could — he could, probably — but isn’t that — just a little —?

 _It doesn’t matter_ , the voice makes him realize, _if it’s good, if it’s bad, it doesn’t matter,_ and there’s a _riip_ , as his shirt tears. A single kagune emerges from his back, curled so it’s only softness, and he eases it toward her, using it to stroke her trembling thighs and then between them. The barista’s breath catches and then grows even heavier. Her arms fold over his shoulders and her nails dig into his shirt as he goes on, pulling up her shirt and her bra and kissing every bare centimeter of skin that he can reach. His kagune strokes, long and gently, back and forth. Before long, it comes away wet.

“K-Kaneki,” she pants. “I…I…”

“What?” he asks, and she bites her lip and shakes her head but his ears are perked now, his heart is alive, and when more kisses won’t ease her words out of her, his shirt tears more. Another pair of kagune emerge, thinner than the first, and even more dextrous; she shifts her legs further to accommodate them as they move her underwear aside and spread her apart. The last bit of maneuvering, she does herself, fingers undoing the clasp of his pants and pulling him free of his boxers. She pumps him, points him properly, and holds her breath, and then releases it sharply as he thrusts.

“ _Yes_ ,” she moans, and, hearing it, he can’t help his own groan.

Yes. _Yes._

Closeness. Heat. Squeezing. His kagune begin to slump as his concentration loosens, and he fights to keep them, even as he starts to lose awareness of anything other than the warmth and velvet and sound of her taking him again and again. He strokes her face and her belly and her breasts, and urges, desperate, in her ear: “Tell me, tell me…”

“T-tell…?”

“Tell me…what you were going to say. Tell me. Please.”

“I…ahhh…I…” Her eyes are dazed. He slows, just a little, and she bites her lip, hard, with dismay.

“I missed you,” she bursts. “I — I missed you. I waited. A long time. But I… _aahh…”_ He pushes in deep, encouraging, and her spine arches and she smiles at him, beautifully. “But I always believed…that you would…come back.”

She did? An eagerness is building his chest.

“Why,” he pleads, “why,” and she shakes her head, and he starts to thrust into her again, this time roughly, so that her moaning begins to break with every motion, so she loses her composure and guard and embarrassment and starts to let things slip through in heady shards, things like _That feels good_ and _Yes_ and _Please, yes,_ and finally, _Kaneki, I_ _— love you —_

Pleasure hits him in a wave, rolls across his whole body. He gasps, shudders, releases into her while she holds him and bucks her hips. Afterward, though he’s still hard enough to stay inside her, he reaches and rolls his thumb across her clit, helping her along. She’s tightening, and getting — just a little incoherent — but in the haze of things, he eventually realizes what it is she’s saying.

“Please… _please_ …”

“What?” he whispers. “What is it? I’ll do it. Just tell me.”

“I…ah… _please_ …”

He leans in closer, and finally picks it up.

“Say my name,” she begs.

“Of course,” he says. He bows his head to hide his eyes, and scans the room. Thankfully — there — her uniform, on the floor, with her name tag attached. He presses a little harder, kisses her shoulders, waits until he can feel her just on the edge of herself, until he can sense her every muscle coiling. And then, just as he thrusts deep, he whispers it.

_“Kirishima.”_

Her eyes widen. She climaxes, twisting beneath him, spasming, gasping. He kisses her face all throughout it, her eyes, her cheeks, over and over. He waits for her to stop shaking, but, to his surprise, she doesn’t. Suddenly, he tastes salt.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!


End file.
